


Drones

by Ahnyo



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles
Genre: Backstory, Canon Compliant, Dark, Gen, Science Fiction, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:41:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28744908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahnyo/pseuds/Ahnyo
Summary: As the ether percolated his brain, Xord paused to meditate on what he had done. Having killed before, there was nothing particularly shocking about doing it again. It was just a series of motions: a blow, a snatch, the snap of metal jaws. It didn’t need to be anything more than that.Yet, he had seen the fear in the Homs’ dying expressions, and his delirium twisted it into something tantalizing. Xord didn’t cope by pretending his victims weren’t people—quite the opposite. He knew they were alive to witness his fury, and it felt gratifying after having to suffer under Egil. When it came to murder, nothing was holding him back.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	1. Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Show me mercy from the killing machines  
> Show me mercy, can someone rescue me?

In the commercial district of Colony 9, the first strike of Xord’s hammer signaled the start of a new day—but today, the coals in his forge remained cool. Xord’s Smithy would be closed until further notice. The job he had been assigned would take him far away from home, on the brink of enemy territory.

Sword Valley formed a bridge between Bionis and Mechonis, making it the Homs’ last line of defense. Tensions were on the rise at the border, and an all-out attack seemed imminent. If the Homs failed to rout the enemy, the Mechon would be free to cross over and take occupation of Bionis.

It took considerable effort to fell even a single Mechon, for their armor was composed of a diamond-like metal that could not be penetrated by bullets or steel. The gears and networks of wires that lay underneath were far more delicate, but those parts could only be reached if a Mechon was toppled and made prone. Given the size and strength of some units, this was not an easy task.

However, like diamonds, a Mechon’s armor could be damaged by weapons made of the same material. This kind of metal was not found on Bionis, meaning it could only be obtained from the bodies of fallen Mechon. Consequently, it was impossible to produce anti-Mechon weapons en masse. As such, blacksmiths from across Bionis were recruited to aid in the war effort.

Xord had experience crafting anti-Mechon weapons and was generally knowledgeable about different models of Mechon. He was a mechanic as well as a blacksmith, and he had a talent for fixing machines. He had once turned a deactivated Mechon drone into a remote control toy—a toy that caused a small panic and was promptly shot down by the Defence Force.

Since it would be impractical to ship materials and finished products back and forth between Colony 9 and the battlefield, Xord was asked to set up shop in Sword Valley. He had been hesitant to make the move, but the pay was too good to turn down. The Defence Force had loaned him a vehicle and expected him to arrive as soon as possible.

Xord walked out of his garage, where his business was located, with a box of tools in his arms. He shoved it into the trunk of the vehicle and turned around. Standing on the front porch was his daughter, a young woman by the name of Désirée.

“It’s so quiet this morning. I almost didn’t wake up on time,” she said. “Oh, that’s right. You’re leaving soon.”

“Yes. I’m packing my things now.” Xord had been told that a forge, an anvil, and other equipment would be provided on-site, but he had a strong preference for his own tools. He had been using the same hammer, tongs, and gloves for nearly as long as Désirée had been alive.

“Can I help you pack? I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Xord, who was well into his fifties, had been smithing since he was a teenager. As a result, he had a bad shoulder, his knees hurt, and his eardrums were damaged. Even though his body was giving out on him, he didn’t plan on retiring any time soon. Xord saw himself dying with his hammer in hand.

Xord smiled. It was a basic gesture, but he couldn’t help but feel delighted. Désirée was such a considerate young woman. “Thank you, dear.”

Xord had a somewhat distant relationship with his daughter. When Désirée was a small child, he would often play with her or take her to the shops before work. As she got older, she began spending less time with him. Xord worked all day and came home exhausted, so they had little time for bonding. They would exchange a few words over supper, but they never had much to talk about.

“How’re you doing?”

“Good.”

“What’ve you been up to?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

Xord, who barely knew the person Désirée had become, continued to think of her as his little girl. He held onto that image and dedicated himself to supporting her through his work. Désirée was content with her dependence on him. She was nearly twenty years old, yet she had never put any thought into a career, or even a job. Xord was happy to continue providing for her. After all, Désirée was his little girl.

“It’s so heavy!” cried Désirée, carrying Xord’s hammer in both hands. “And you swing this thing over your head _all day long?_ ”

“Careful. You don’t want to drop it on your foot.”

Désirée gently placed the hammer in the box. With a laugh, she said, “Dad, I’m the one who’s supposed to be keeping _you_ from getting hurt.”

Something about her wording made Xord feel a tinge of sadness. He had always been her protector, but now, she was growing up and he was growing old. He wasn’t ready for this stage of parenthood. He wasn’t ready to become a frail old man with atrophied muscles and weak bones; someone who needed to be cared for by somebody else. Xord, as much as he wanted to deny it, knew there would be a day where he’d have to put his hammer down for the last time—and that day was sooner rather than later.

“Is something wrong?”

Xord shook his head. “No, no. Was just thinking.”

Désirée looked somewhat uncomfortable herself, but like her father, she kept mum. She peered into one of the boxes Xord had already packed. “What is… Oh, bloody hell! You kept this piece of junk after all these years?” She reached in and pulled out a dubiously animal-shaped clay figurine that had been broken and glued back together. “Why on Bionis are you bringing this thing with you?”

“I—” Xord’s face was red. “It reminds me of you?”

Laughing, Désirée said, “Are you saying I’m rubbish?”

“No, of course not! It’s just… it’s the only sculpture you ever gave me.”

“I gave it to you so you could put it in the bin,” Désirée said, still giggling. “Now I feel bad about never making anything for you. I just didn’t think you’d want it.”

“Why would you think that? I love everything you make!” Xord exclaimed. “You’re so talented with clay.”

With a sigh, Désirée slipped the figurine back into the box. When they had finished packing, she asked, “Dad, are you sure you’ll be safe out there?”

“I’m not going there to fight. I’ll be fine,” Xord replied. “The smithy’s gonna be the safest place in Sword Valley. I’ll be surrounded by weapons! If one of those Mechon tries to get me, I’ll give ‘em a good whack with my hammer.”

Désirée gave him an uneasy smile. “Well… just be careful, okay?”

“The same goes for you. I don’t want you getting into any trouble while I’m not here.”

She rolled her eyes.

There was one thing Xord needed to do before he left. “C’mere,” he said, beckoning Désirée forward. The girl walked into his outstretched arms and he hugged her, her forehead meeting his beard. “I love you.”

Désirée reeled back when he let her go. He reeked of smoke, but she was polite enough not to comment. “I love you, Dad. Stay safe.”

  


Xord kept those words in a mental locket that he brought with him to Sword Valley. His work station was a steel-framed shelter that was almost the same size as his garage, but significantly emptier. Inside was a hearth, an anvil with a log base, a metal chair, and a single shelving unit. He had also been provided with a bedroll and some rations, much to his dismay. Xord might not have been a soldier, but he still had to live in a war zone.

Several days went by without much conflict. Unable to sleep comfortably on the ground, Xord chewed on coffee grounds to get him through the day. He was given a couple of broken Mechon units to work with, but it was unclear how recently they had been dispatched. As long as he was efficient with his time, he was free to craft whatever he chose. The weapons he produced were not particularly impressive to look at, but they would get the job done.

In a few days’ time, the situation escalated. The Mechon stormed Sword Valley.

A small truck came to a stop in front of the smithy, a broken Mechon in tow. “We got an M63!” the driver exclaimed. He and another soldier got out, lifted the Mechon, and threw it on the ground with a crash. The truck took off just as quickly as it had arrived.

Knowing that the smithy was so close to the battlegrounds made Xord anxious, but he did his best to focus on his task. The Mechon was too heavy for him to bring inside, so he worked quickly to gather its parts. He got out his old anti-Mechon saw, removed the M63’s distal appendages, and set them aside. Since they were already passable as blunt weapons, he saw no need to modify them. The big sheets of casing that remained would be awkward to work with, but Xord couldn’t let anything go to waste. He began carving off the M63’s patella, which took the form of a large spike. It would make an excellent spearhead.

Xord examined the Mechon’s remains, looking for a suitable shaft. Its upper arm was rod-shaped, but it wasn’t long enough to make an effective weapon. He would have to draw it out. After severing the appendage, Xord grabbed it with his tongs and put it in the forge. As he waited for it to heat up, he became aware of the sounds of combat: the clashing of metal, ricocheting bullets, and cries of war and agony. If Xord could hear it, it must have been very close by. Xord knew the thin walls of his pop-up smithy wouldn’t keep him safe. He hoped the Mechon would overlook the shack, but it would be hard to avoid their detection once he started pounding on the anvil.

Xord took a deep breath. The metal had turned white hot. It was time for him to get to work. Xord reluctantly retrieved the rod and set it on the base of the anvil’s horn. He flinched at the sound of his hammer’s first strike, which rang through the air like a bell. His heart began to race as he rotated the rod and dealt another blow. He was practically begging to be attacked.

_Clang. Clang. Clang_. Normally, the harsh noise was a rhythm for his daydreams—but now, each individual strike occupied his mind. He could no longer hear the sounds coming from outside, but he knew the danger was still present. After a few more rotations, Xord had to put his hammer down. His body was tense, which amplified the pain in his shoulder.

After returning the rod to the forge, Xord pulled out a canteen and splashed some water onto his brow. The shack was full of smoke, but Xord didn’t dare to step outside for some fresh air. He sat down in a chair and held his shoulder, wishing he had some ice. He was tempted to sit there for a while, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to relax. His ears were ringing and he could no longer hear the sounds coming from outside. For a moment, he pretended that whatever was out there had gone away.

That moment was precisely what the Mechon M72 lurking nearby needed.

It burst into the shack. Xord tumbled out of his chair, narrowly avoiding its snapping claws. He landed hard on his shoulder, and even though his blood was laced with adrenaline, it did little to numb the pain. With tears welling in his eyes, Xord dragged himself over to the pile of Mechon limbs and picked one up with his non-dominant hand. He rolled onto his back and pointed it toward the M72.

“Get away from me!” he pleaded. “Don’t hurt me! I’m a civilian!”

The M72 ripped the weapon away with such force that it dislocated Xord’s arm. It grabbed his torso, cracking his ribs and squeezing the air out of his lungs. Xord coughed up blood as it raised him toward the ceiling.

“I don’t want to die,” he wheezed. Visions of Désirée flashed through his head. “I can’t die. Please… mercy…”

There was no reasoning with a machine.

The M72 slammed Xord into the forge face-first. He screamed until his lips melted, melding with the molten rod. The Mechon dropped him and he slumped to the ground, his face unrecognizable. He lay there, suffocating, until the M72 closed its claws around his legs and dragged him out of the shack, carting him off like one of the scrapped Mechon that had been delivered to the smithy.

He, too, would be made into a weapon.


	2. The Handler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold my transformation  
> And you are empowered to do as you please  
> My mind was lost in translation  
> And my heart has become a cold and impassive machine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone. I've decided I'm not going to update again until I either finish or give up. It's taken a lot of pressure off of me. As of 1/25, I'm five chapters in. I think there's a pretty good chance that I'll get this thing done! Thank you for being patient.

In death, what greeted Xord was not the blackness of the void—it was what was seen by ears and heard by eyes. He existed within his internal monologue, which was limited by his vague recollection of words and concepts. On some level, Xord knew he was dead. He didn’t know how he had lost his life, though. He could hardly even remember who he had been before. He had no name or identity of which he could speak. He was an ex-person.

Since Xord had no emotional attachment to his body, he felt no sorrow. He was, however, filled with dread. He would spend all of eternity as something less than a ghost: a consciousness removed from time and space.

Then, Xord felt something: the beating of a heart. The sensation centered him and gave him something resembling form, bringing him out of his purgatorial state. There he was: thoughts and a pulse. _Alive._

But something about the circulation of Xord’s blood was off. While Xord no longer possessed a sense of proprioception, he retained a sense of scale. It took an abnormally long amount of time for his blood to cycle, as if it was flowing through something the size of a house. Xord’s heart couldn’t have been strong enough to pump blood with such force. It must have been aided by some kind of machine.

His blood was being drawn into foreign channels that formed a huge network with his own arteries. This thing; this machine had become an extension of Xord, sustaining him and holding him hostage from the release of death. 

Suddenly, Xord could see. His field of view was tinted red, as though it had been splashed with his own blood. It was dark, and he couldn’t quite make out his surroundings. He stirred, and everything around him creaked. The noise was terrible, like the sound of a building on the verge of collapse. Xord was caught off guard by the unexpected movement. He staggered, as did the machine. They were one.

While Xord could see, his ability to feel was limited. He could feel his heartbeat and determine where his thoughts were coming from, which, strangely, was in the vicinity of his heart. He also had a loose sense of weight and pressure—Xord could tell he was immensely heavy, yet it didn’t seem like the weight belonged to him. He couldn’t feel the cold metal under his feet or the temperature of the stagnant air. The pain in his shoulder and knees was gone, though Xord didn’t necessarily feel “good”.

Xord wasn’t fully aware that he could hear until he became aware of the whir of a crane. He traced its movement with his eyes, grateful for the distraction. Dangling from the crane was a ventilated container, which it set gently on the floor before veering away. A door swung open on rusted hinges and a timid Ponio foal stepped out. It froze at the sight of Xord, ears pricked and tail between its legs.

Xord stared back vacantly. His eyes scanned the animal, but his sight had become detached from his brain. Xord didn’t question why the Ponio had been put there, nor did he even register exactly what he was looking at. His mind was active, but not in a way he could understand. It felt like his head was full of static.

In spite of this, Xord was able to feel a sort of kinship with the Ponio. After all, they were both animals in a strange new environment. But Xord was a predator and the Ponio was prey. Xord picked up the scent of ether: something invigorating mixed with the odors of dust and earth. His instincts were roused from dormancy like sharks drawn to blood in the water.

The Ponio scampered the instant Xord stirred, nearly knocking itself off its feet. Its speed was easily outmatched by the massiveness of Xord's form. He plucked it off the ground with one decisive snatch and crushed it in his grip. He could see only the fear in its black eyes as he brought the squealing creature toward his face; to him, the mechanical hand wrapped around it was invisible. The aroma of the Ponio's ether crept through the slats in his metal chassis, even stronger than before. 

A pair of wide panels on his chest popped open, revealing a serrated grate. Xord flung the Ponio into the air. The creature tossed violently until it hit his chest, causing the panels to snap shut like a mousetrap. Electricity rippled from Xord's thoracic jaws as he chewed, breaking the foal's body down into a slurry of blood and ether. The liquid oozed through the grate and dripped into his core. Once the carcass had been drained of substance, Xord spat it out. A charred mass of skin and splintered bones slid out from his maw and fell to the floor.

Xord, having come to, sputtered as he looked over the Ponio's unrecognizable remains. _He_ had done that. He wanted to believe that he hadn't been responsible for mangling the poor animal, yet part of him was satisfied with his kill. The ether churned inside of him, giving him a pinch of rejuvenating energy. It also fueled his appetite and made him hunger for more. As Xord's hunger grew, so did his disgust with himself. He wanted to run from the horrible thing he had become.

“No,” Xord choked in an amplified voice. He tried not to think about the Ponio, but the stench of death wouldn't let him forget what he had done. He needed to get away. Xord surged forward, only for his chest to collide with a glass-like barrier. As he registered what had happened, Xord caught a glimpse of something on the other side of the barrier; something that rattled him to the core.

It was a Mechon; a hulking metal behemoth. Its bulky, egg-shaped build was covered in bronze armor. Only its skull-like head, which had sunken red eyes, was bare. Long spines protruded from the sides of its hinged jaw. Its chest stuck out like the bow of a ship, and it had a spherical abdomen that ended in a turbine-like tail. Hanging over its back was a broad structure resembling a shell. A series of lighted canals ran across the machine's exterior, carrying red fluid with an uncanny resemblance to blood.

Xord stood as still as a statue. His eyes were glued to the phantom Mechon, which was motionless as well. He was repelled by it, even though he couldn’t identify why. It was a primal response, like an animal’s inborn fear of a predator. At the same time, Xord couldn’t help but be in awe of its design. It was a beautifully crafted piece of machinery.

Had it been deactivated? Something compelled Xord to reach out and touch the Mechon. It mirrored his movement perfectly. Xord reeled in horror when it dawned on him that he was looking at his own reflection.

Nothing evoked familiarity quite like seeing one’s self in a mirror; yet Xord didn’t recognize what he saw at all. Even though he had lost his memory, he could tell something wasn’t right. He couldn’t have been a Mechon. Mechon weren’t “alive”, at least not in the way Xord was. They were machines; they didn’t have thoughts. Perhaps Xord had been programmed with the illusion of autonomy—but if that were the case, why did he remember being something before? Why did he remember being imbued with the ether of Bionis?

Xord’s mechanical form rose and fell as he absently navigated his reflection. He appeared to be breathing, but it was merely a vestigial reflex. Like his heartbeat, his respiration was regulated artificially and the air flowed in and out at a constant rate. Xord watched his motions in the glass as he opened and closed his fist and weaved his fingers through the air. Somehow, his inflexible metal arm was trembling like flesh. The image disturbed Xord on a visceral level, and he couldn’t help but moan in dread. Machines weren’t supposed to move like that. He was an abomination. “No,” Xord said again. All other words were useless.

Xord wanted to slam his head against the wall in an attempt to wake himself from what he wished was a nightmare, but his shell’s overhang got in the way. He no longer had the energy to deny what he was seeing. All he could do was sob as his thoughts fizzled into static once more.

At first, his hunger was tolerable—a mere suggestion in the back of his mind—but the more Xord exerted himself, the more excruciating it became. He tried shoving the discarded Ponio carcass back into his maw to see if he could suck out any lingering traces of ether, but it had been picked clean. Xord no longer felt bad about what he had done to the animal. He wasn’t in the state of mind to think much about anything other than how hungry he was.

After throwing the crate at the wall, he beat his fists against the glass-like surface. Somehow, it withstood his mechanical might. Xord needed to get out and find a source of ether, or else he would lose his mind completely. He continued to lash out at the wall, swinging wildly before turning to huge, concentrated blows. His efforts were unyielding, yet in vain.

“Bronze Face. Confirm that you are responsive.”

Xord stopped. Slowly, he lifted his head and tilted it back at an impossible angle. He flinched when his gaze landed on a man standing on what appeared to be an observation deck. At his side was a woman recording something on a light-based console. Xord’s fear was swiftly rerouted into a nervous kind of excitement; a feeling that rose above his terrible hunger. Still, he found he was only capable of moaning at the figures.

“I see the integration of your Core Unit was a success. Your reactivity is promising.” It was the man who spoke again. The woman appeared to be occupied with her work.

Xord was unable to process any of the words, as if the man was speaking a different language. He didn’t care. Knowing he wasn’t alone in his prison filled him with relief. Even though he had plenty of reason to be suspicious of him, Xord found himself putting blind trust in the man. There were so many things he wanted to say to him, but he was too exhausted to compose his thoughts into something intelligible.

Xord began to ramble, his speech slurred to the point of incoherence. Where—ahh, so hungry. You… did they… oh, please, I have to eat!” He placed his metal palms against the wall of his cell. “W-what did they do to me? I'm a… no, can't go on like this. Need food _now_.” Xord pummeled the glass and howled. “Help! You gotta help me!”

“So the language center continues to function,” the man mused. Unperturbed by Xord’s distress, he replied, “Your questions will be answered in due time. First, I will see to it that you are refueled.”

Xord was taken aback. Even though he still didn't know anything about the man, he was overcome with gratitude for him. He had to be there to help him. Xord felt like his trust was justified after all.

He cocked his head. “F-food?” Xord said. “Really? You're really gonna…?” 

“Face Units require a vast quantity of ether. I have prepared your next “meal”, if it pleases you to think of it as such. It should keep you fueled for a considerable length of time,” the man said. “Do not expect to become dependent on me for ether. You will be more than capable of acquiring it yourself once you are released.”

Xord nodded with zeal. He knew he would be fed sooner if he acted obedient, even if he wasn't actually listening. 

“Vanea. Summon the Transport Unit.”

“Understood.” The woman swept her hand across the console. An aerial Mechon worker with a freshly slaughtered Armu in its claws appeared. It set the carcass in front of Xord and retreated over the wall.

The intoxicating smell of ether drew Xord forward. The Armu was much larger than the Ponio foal—too large for him to cram into his chest and devour all at once. Xord grabbed onto its hind legs and tore it limb from limb, ripping through its sturdy hide as if it were made of tissue paper. He ate it piece by piece, breaking it down until there was nothing left but skin and bones. 

The ether calmed Xord and restored his lucidity, although his brain still had a small delay. He stopped to inspect his blood-stained hands. “Why am I doing this?” he choked, making fists. He didn’t feel guilty as much as he was confused and angered by his lack of control.

Xord's arms were trembling. His body moved against him and he reached for the remains like an addict itching for a fix. Xord stopped resisting. He could not reverse what had already been done, and there was no reason for him to fight his cravings when eating made him feel so good. He had no stomach to fill, but the ether tricked his brain into releasing endorphins. His satiation was a figment of his imagination.

Once he had finished, Xord's gaze returned to the figures watching him from the deck. They were mere silhouettes, but the shape of their bodies was familiar. They were Homs, or at least they appeared to be under the cover of darkness. That was what Xord’s reflection should have looked like.

At last, Xord asked, “Who are you?”

The man spoke. “I am Egil, leader of Mechonis. I showed you mercy and bestowed you with this immense body of steel. In return, you will obey my commands.”

_Mechonis_. Again, Xord felt threatened. The Mechonis wasn’t his world. It was enemy territory; a foreign, hostile place. But why would a Homs be affiliated with Mechonis? It was then that Xord realized that Egil wasn’t his friend. “So it was you,” Xord said. “You made me into this… this… _monster._ Why, why, why, _why?_ ” He punched the glass with each repetition of the word.

“I did what was necessary. Such is the nature of war.”

Again, Xord punched the barrier. “Tell me why I don’t remember anything. What did you do to my head?”

“Your memories are of no use to you. The person you were before no longer exists,” said Egil. 

The ambiguity of Egil’s statements enraged Xord. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get any straight answers out of him, so he was done asking questions. “I'll make you regret turning me into this pile o' junk, Egil. I'll crush you like I crushed those bloody monsters.”

“There are defenses in place to prevent anything of the sort. You cannot hope to defy me.” The only thing standing between Xord and his handler was the indestructible glass-like barrier. It frustrated Xord to no end that he appeared to be within reach, yet he was powerless to harm him. Egil continued, “Surrender, Bronze Face. You took your chances in Sword Valley, and you lost. Now, you will swear fealty only to Mechonis.”

“I won’t do a damn thing.”

“You do not have a choice,” said Egil. “I will only administer rations of ether if you show deference. If not, you will writhe until you cave to your instincts.”

“Then I’ll starve.” Xord was bluffing. He was in thrall to his hunger. As his ether supply decreased, he regressed into an animal with no conscience or self-control. In this state, he was highly vulnerable. Egil could get him to do anything he wanted by dangling food over his head, as if he were a dog.

“All living beings act at the behest of an innate desire to survive. The self-preservation system installed in your Face Unit will ensure that the machine continues to operate. This model is inefficient by design, thus extending my control.”

“You’re sick,” Xord said.

Egil continued, “But that is not what I desire. My cause demands willful participation. However, I understand that this will not be feasible without a degree of coercion. Your self-preservation system will lend itself to opening your mind.”

Xord felt trapped. Nothing he could say or do would salvage him from his fate. He couldn’t even express his disapproval in a meaningful way. His contempt for Egil was stronger than tempered steel, but that could not possibly be gleaned from the Mechon’s stolid face.

“Just what do you want me to do?” Xord demanded. There had to be a reason Egil was going to such lengths to make sure he obeyed.

“You are my weapon,” said Egil. “Under my command, you will bring about the extermination of all life on Bionis.”


End file.
